


if it's wrong ( i don't wanna be right )

by dormant_bender



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Desire, Guilt, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, No Dialogue, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Short One Shot, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6794674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormant_bender/pseuds/dormant_bender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>marc doesn't mean to, at least not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if it's wrong ( i don't wanna be right )

**Author's Note:**

> i just don't even know ?? 
> 
> none of my other one-shots were working out but i decided this would be okay ??

                                                                                       **He never meant to.**

    Or at least that's what he tells himself as he lays in bed with a steady hand working his cock, the pad of his thumb rubbing tiny circles against the head.

    It had all started when Rafinha had came over an hour earlier complaining about how the hot water at his flat refused to work properly, that he needed a shower desperately, as well as some company as per usual. Never did the Brazilian revel in being alone, in fact: he had came over multiple times before requesting to spend the night.

    But this was different, the brunet had used the bathroom located in his bedroom. The one with the door merely feet away from where he lays in the bed. At first all he hears is boisterous singing in Portuguese that leaves him scrambling for pillows to cover his head with, the sound far from appealing with the way he shrieks it at the top of his lungs.

    All too soon it had rapidly changed into moans that started off barely audible over the sound of the raining water. Every minute or so the sounds heighten in volume until the blond was hardening in his shorts, the pillow removed from his head and tossed carelessly to the side.

    Nothing was official between the two—hell, he wasn't even sure if Rafinha was even into men—but he can't find it within himself to use logic as he hesitantly sneaks a hand beneath his shorts to palm at the rapidly hardening length there. Electricity stutters throughout his form when another hissed sound echos off the walls to assault his eardrums.

    Blue eyes flutter to a wistful close as he focuses in on the mewls that continue to reverberate within his eardrums, the thoughts running rampant through his mind creating a beautiful and vivid picture of what he so desired.

    Up and down, his hand moves, hips rising off the bed as he strokes himself. Behind close lids he sees the sight playing out before him; plump lips are ever-so-parted, with droplets of water pooling on the lower, while his smooth chest contracts with each fluid movement of his hand. He can practically see those dark eyes blinking the water that pools within his lashes away until he finally closes them, his breathing speeding up as he lays a palm flat against the tile of the shower, the hand on his cock increasing in speed.

    Can practically feel the heated breaths against his neck and the scent of shampoo within his nostrils. He swears he can feel the heat of his form pressed into every ridge of his body, can feel those hands ghosting along his skin. Lids remain clenched shut as he envisions the hand around his cock is not his own—no, no—it belongs to the beautiful Brazilian. Can feel those calloused hands from years of playing the guitar stroking his cock, squeezing him tightly at the base, then smearing the pre-cum building at the tip along the length of him.

    A choked sob that is silenced by teeth within his palm echoes from the German and his hips rise off the bed once more as he thrusts into the fist his hand makes—no, no. It's Rafinha's, his mind supplies, it's Rafinha's touch that feels so good—so _right_ —as it strokes him. It's Rafinha who trails his opposing hand down to gently cup his balls, kneading them within his hand, while the other holds him tight at the base.

    He swears he can feel the tip of a tongue at the head of his cock, tasting him experimentally. Can envision the sight of those plump lips parting to suckle at the head, tongue dipping into the slit to taste more of his essence, before finally sinking halfway down his cock. His lips are tight—hot, snug—around him and his tongue smooths along the underside of his cock as he bobs his head in a learned rhythm.

    More of the noises erupt and he can barely make out a word that is uttered, but no—He does, he recognizes it, the hand on his cock tightening impossibly. _Marc_. He knows that name, it's him—Rafinha is moaning for him—And.. And the hand at his cock strokes faster, up and down, until he tightens his fist around the head and he's cumming.

    Cumming in ivory spurts that coat his fist and his abdomen as well as his sheets. But he can't think, no, at least not past the guilt that consumes him as he groans out his pleasure. His hips are stuttering as he bucks upward to ride out the high all the while the guilt continues to consume him. Blue hues are hazy and clouded with lust as he blinks away the fog that threatens to cloud his vision because—because, no, all he wants to see is Rafinha—

    Needs to see the sight of Rafinha cumming, needs to bare witness to it. Needs to know that it was him he was cumming for, needs to know it's okay to feel this way. Needs to know that maybe—even if it seemed too good to be true—that he was equally as desired by the Brazilian. 

    Soon the sounds from the bathroom, as well as the water itself, are silent. He scrambles for something, anything really, and settles with his sheets to furiously wipe away the remainder of his release. When he hears shuffling echo from within the bathroom, he shifts onto his side, clenches his lids tightly shut.

    Marc doesn't move once, form rigid and absolutely still, as he hears the door to the bathroom swing open—the scent of shampoo and Rafinha assaults his senses, not helping with the conflicting feelings that register within his chest. Silent footfalls pad across the floor until he reaches the bedroom door where he pauses, the sound of the door swinging on its hinges. But no, the Brazilian doesn't move to exit, no.

    Instead Marc is forced to remain still for a moment longer as the Brazilian releases a soft sigh: "Good night, Marc." He can practically see the light pouring in from the open door behind his lids and he so desperately wants to sit up in bed, plea for the younger to stay, that he _has_ to.

    Finally, the brunet is leaving, closing the door behind him as he goes.

    All Marc can do is shift until his form is facing upward so he can stare pointedly through the darkness at the ceiling. It was wrong—he knew it, really—but he couldn't resist the temptation. Had willingly taken advantage of Rafinha when the latter assumed he had been sleeping. Even so, it didn't make him feel any less for the Brazilian.

    Because regardless he would always be in love with him, even if it were only expressed in the comfort of his bed with his hand shoved down his shorts.

**Author's Note:**

> woohoo. 
> 
> twisted feelings ftw.


End file.
